‘I won’t be a moment,’ he said, as he concentrated on the final stitches. He looped the needle several times to form a knot and snipped off the excess, then gave the hook a small tug to ensure it was secure.
‘Now,’ he said, placing his scissors back on the table. ‘Your frock.’
On a tray beside him, a great jumble of the hooks were waiting to be used. I picked up one to look at it. ‘Do you make these coats for all the Brethren members?’
‘For the men at least,’ he said, taking down my dress. ‘I doubt the women would be seen dead in them.’
He showed me my gown draped over his forearm, and I had to say the job was neat, the alterations to the sleeves and neckline invisible. I thanked him, and he began folding the dress into a basket.
The Brethren coat drooped open, the canvas skin of the dress-form underneath scarred by Whistler’s knife. I lifted one of the sleeves to feel the cuff, and then let it fall again.
‘Who is this being made for?’
‘I can’t say.’ I thought at first he was being discreet, but he added, ‘They only send me the measurements, never the names.’
‘Did you make the first one?’
‘Oh, yes. Mr Darby was adamant about the particulars: the colour, the cloth, the hook and eyes. He told me then that he expected to order a few dozen.’ He ensured the lid of the basket was snug. ‘There were twelve new orders last week alone.’
I was about to ask him who took delivery of the coats, but he said, ‘That’ll be ten bob, miss,’ looking at me over his glasses.
‘Of course.’ I counted the money from my purse, and he swept the coins from the table into his hand. In the other room, the terrier began yapping, and Whistler went to deal with his new customer.
I brought the gown home, entering the kitchen from the back garden. Father had been busy that morning in his workrooms, and he was now raiding the pantry to break his fast, using a breadknife to cut a slice of cheddar. He greeted me over his shoulder, but then stopped me before I could leave the room.
He pointed to my wrist. ‘What happened there?’
Father had yet to see the bandages from my fall. On the evening itself, I had said that I was feeling unwell and took to my room. We had missed each other at meals the following day, and, in general, I had kept my sleeve low over my wrist.
‘I fell in the yard,’ I said. ‘It was only a small cut.’
He gestured for me to come closer, held my hand and ran his thumb over the wrapped cloth.
‘Who dressed it?’
The truth was the most plausible answer. ‘Mr Weir.’
Father frowned a little, and turned my hand over. After a moment, the corners of his mouth drooped down, and he nodded to himself. ‘Mr Weir’s bindings are getting much neater, I’m glad to say. Try to be more careful, Abigail.’
I said that I would try, and he returned his attention to his meal.
Half an hour to go before the ball in Charlemont House, and I was in Clarissa’s room, helping to remove paper curlers from her hair. I was dressed and ready to leave; she was still in her stays and petticoats.
‘I don’t know why you must leave these things to the last minute,’ I said.
She jutted her lower lip to blow a curl away from her eye. ‘Last time I kept them in too briefly and my hair went flat after the first quadrille. I could see Edith Gould smirking at me.’
Mrs Egan paced the room, keeping one eye on the clock and the other on Maria – a maid who was sewing a ruffled silk blossom to the hem of Clarissa’s ball-gown. Clarissa removed the two remaining curlers and examined herself in the mirror. She arranged the ringlets about her face, tilting her head this way and that to ensure they’d not go awry.
Perhaps she was more anxious than usual. She hadn’t known that James Caulfeild was home from London until I’d mentioned in passing that he had called to my house. I knew that Clarissa admired him, even if she was an unlikely candidate for marriage. Though her father was relatively well-off, it was doubtful that Lord Charlemont would consent to his son marrying a clergyman’s daughter.
Maria finished the repair, bit off the thread, and then assisted Clarissa in donning the gown. It was hitched at several points, allowing the hem to hang in drooping curves like the bottom of a theatre curtain, revealing the white skirt beneath. When ready, Clarissa stood among discarded scraps of paper, her dressing table cluttered with scent bottles and brushes, tins of face powder and milk of roses, but she looked beautiful.
Mrs Egan said that she rather preferred my dress. ‘So much more like the ones I used to wear.’
The entrance hall of Charlemont House was a lofty space with stone pillars and a chequered marble floor. A staircase swept up to the left, and we could already hear the hum of conversation in the rooms above. There was a queue near the top of the stairs waiting to greet our hosts. The ladies wore bold colours and extravagant trappings, with necklines so wide that it seemed the gowns might slip from their shoulders. I looked down at my dress, conscious of its plainness. Mr Whistler had done a fine job in letting it out, but it was of cream muslin with long sleeves and no train, and I felt demure and dull and immature.
The hardwood floor of the ballroom was already thronging with guests. Dozens of tall candelabra with fat, melting candles cast pools of light in the hall. The young and gaily dressed paraded in the brightness; the dowdy and decrepit kept to the shadows. A quartet played music on a raised dais opposite one fireplace, though the dances were yet to begin. Opened double doors at one end led to a smaller drawing room.
Mrs Egan began to speak with a neighbour from Mountjoy Square, leaving us to our own devices. Clarissa scanned the room, looking for acquaintances. She nodded towards one corner, saying, ‘There’s Edith.’
Miss Gould was standing beside her mother. There was no sign of her brother Robert. In the same part of the room, James Caulfeild was in conversation with another young man. Lord Charlemont’s son wore a blue dress-coat. His fair hair was swept back and cut longer than most of the other men present wore theirs, especially those in uniform, and I could see again why Clarissa was so enamoured.
She said that Edith had positioned herself so she could snare him for the opening dance. ‘We’ll have to get there first.’
‘No, Clara. If he wants to engage with us he’ll come over.’
‘But he’s already been to your house. It’s perfectly proper for you to—’ She frowned and peered more intently over my shoulder. Then she said, ‘My goodness.’
‘What is it?’
‘The man he speaks with is Mr Weir.’
I craned my neck to see. It was indeed Ewan, looking handsome in formal attire, though a lock of hair still threatened to slip over one eye.
‘But this is ideal,’ Clarissa said. ‘You can greet him since you’re almost related, and he’ll make the introductions.’
I had seen Ewan several times in the week leading up to the ball, and he knew I meant to attend. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned that he was going? And who had invited him? I offered my arm to Clarissa, and we made our way across the room. She whispered for me to keep my shoulders back, and to raise my chin a little. She tugged at my elbow. ‘Not so fast. You’re making us look eager.’
Ewan’s back was turned so he couldn’t see our approach. When I stood beside him I hesitated, unsure of what to say.
‘Good evening, Mr Weir. I’m very surprised to see you here.’ But at once I realized that I’d questioned his presence rather than welcomed it, so I added, ‘Surprised and pleased.’
Ewan turned at the sound of my voice. He seemed taken aback himself, though I couldn’t think why, and he bowed formally. I was so used to seeing him traipsing in and out of my father’s workrooms, fetching water from the kitchen, or sitting across the dining-table, that I almost forgot to curtsy in return.
He said, ‘Miss Lawless, Miss Egan,’ and then fell silent.
I glanced at Caulfeild, who didn’t seem put out by the intrusion; if anything he looked amus
ed at the stilted exchange. Ewan realized that it was his duty to make conversation, and he said, ‘May I introduce you both to Viscount Charlemont.’
‘Please, say Mr Caulfeild. I wince at these titles that I’ve done nothing to earn. I’m already acquainted with Miss Lawless,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘And Miss Egan is—’
‘The daughter of the Reverend. Yes, I know your father well. I often pine for his services while I’m in London.’ He smiled. ‘The religious instruction there tends to be more severe.’
Clarissa said it was very kind of him to say, and took a step closer.
I said to Ewan, ‘You never mentioned that you were coming.’
‘I didn’t think it would be of interest.’ He looked at the others, as if aware that our exchange might seem familiar and unguarded.
Caulfeild said, ‘Mr Weir speaks highly of your father, Miss Lawless. He says he has learned a great deal in the short time he has been here.’
‘Oh, he would be glad to know that.’
‘It is true. I was most fortunate to be placed in his household.’
I smiled at him and he glanced at the floor. Clarissa broke the silence by praising Caulfeild on the grandeur of the ballroom. Conversation turned for a time to discussing mutual acquaintances among the guests.
There was a slight hubbub near the door, and Mr Darby entered, followed by Mr and Mrs Nesham. Darby was dressed in an ordinary evening jacket and white cravat. Several people came forward to greet him, and I assumed they were members of the Brethren, though they were not so easy to distinguish without their religious attire. Darby responded to each of them without smiling; the most he offered was a brief nod of the head. He made his way over to Mrs Gould, who became animated in his presence. Darby spoke with Edith for a minute, and I was surprised when he reached over to brush a lock from her cheek with the tip of his finger. She didn’t draw back from his touch; just bowed her head demurely.
Caulfeild had been looking at Darby all the while, and when he saw that I noticed, he smiled and said, ‘If only we could choose our neighbours, Miss Lawless.’
I asked him if Professor Reeves was coming this evening.
‘He was invited, though it’s difficult to draw him away from Saggart at the best of times.’
Someone announced that the first dance was about to begin, and Darby offered his hand to Edith. She smiled, her cheeks turning pink, and he led her to the centre of the floor. Mrs Gould clasped her palms together as she watched them go.
Caulfeild placed his drink on a table and said that he’d been very lax in his duties as host. ‘Why, I haven’t even seen the dance card.’ He turned to Clarissa. ‘If you’re not engaged, Miss Egan, perhaps you’d do me the honour of joining me for the first set.’
‘No,’ Clarissa said. ‘I mean, no I’m not engaged. I’d be delighted.’
Couples paired off throughout the room, while Ewan and I stood next to each other. I became anxious that he might ask me to dance – perhaps he thought that etiquette required it. And if he did, I couldn’t refuse. There would be no harm, of course, in an innocent dance at a private ball, but it would be awkward come morning, when we would see each other again in the humdrum surroundings of kitchens and cadavers.
‘Miss Lawless?’
I turned to him, suddenly feeling warm. ‘Yes, Mr Weir.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ And without waiting for a reply he moved to the other side of the room.
I stood alone for a moment, unsure of where to go. There were some chairs by the wall behind me, but they were empty, and it would be odd to sit there by myself; odder still to stand unaccompanied at the edge of a dance-floor. A woman bumped into my shoulder as she was being led by a soldier in a scarlet coat. She giggled and said that she was sorry, calling me ‘My dear.’ Another man approached with his face set in a half-smile. He was rather short. Jet black hair was slicked over a bald pate, and one side of his collar had come loose so it almost brushed a fleshy earlobe. I stood on my tiptoes and looked around the room, as if searching for a companion, and then made my way towards the drawing room before he could reach me.
It was less crowded there and cooler as a result. There was no music or dancing. Some of the older guests sat together playing whist. In a darkened corner, a magic lantern cast a vivid image on to a blank wall: galleons and ships of war at Trafalgar, plumes of smoke from cannon-fire, storm clouds and tattered flags. Each element of the picture had been painted on to a separate piece of glass, so they could move independently. The sea tilted to and fro, as if we saw it in reality, though the plumes of smoke remained stationary, which rather spoiled the effect.
A crowd had gathered in another corner to catch glimpse of a life-sized doll: an automaton of a young boy seated at a writing desk. He held a goose-quill over a sheet of paper, and was dressed in a suit of red silk and white ruffled shirtsleeves, like a wealthy child from the previous century.
Lord Charlemont was demonstrating it for his guests. The clockwork was already wound, for when he turned a small cabinet-key, the doll came to life with a whir and clack of shifting gears. His glass eyes rotated as if he were taking in his audience, and then he lifted the quill. He dipped the nib in an opened inkpot, and with a series of fluid movements began to draw a picture. The peculiar thing was the random order in which he formed the lines. He began with a stroke for the hem of a skirt, then the bend of an elbow, a tress of hair. Occasionally his head would rise, and his eyes sweep the crowd as if he were proud of our attention, before he dipped the quill again. Line by line, the picture emerged: a beautiful and simple drawing of a young woman in a flowing dress.
At the final stroke, the boy brought the quill to the side, holding the point in mid-air, and he bowed his head. The people around me began to applaud, their gloved hands creating a muted patter, like soft rain on a canvas tent. But then the automaton whirred into life once more. With his head still bowed, he scratched a line across the girl’s face.
The applause stopped, and a few women murmured, ‘Oh.’
His arm moved again. The second strike-through was vertical, the motion slower, and firm enough to slit the page, leaving the staff of a cross running through the girl’s body. The quill lifted again, but Lord Charlemont turned the key before any more damage was done, and the boy drooped in his seat.
The earl cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps a cogwheel has come loose.’
Despite the disappointing conclusion, many said to the earl that it was a splendid machine, and the crowd began to disperse. The boy remained with his gaze fixed on the page.
I returned to the ballroom, where a new set of dances had begun, and took a seat near the chimney piece between an older lady and two middle-aged men. The dancers had split into groups of four. They linked hands to form circles, rotating clockwise for two bars, and then anticlockwise, like wheels turning in a pocket watch. Clarissa was no longer with Mr Caulfeild. She was making do with another young man who seemed unable to maintain rhythm.
The woman beside me said, ‘This reminds me of the balls that take place in the Castle. The room is very like St Patrick’s Hall, is it not?’
I confessed that I had not yet been to Dublin Castle, and she regarded me more closely. ‘I see,’ she said with a thin smile. ‘Perhaps one day.’
Mr Darby still danced with Edith. Every once in a while they would glance at each other, their hands held high and fingers linked, and Edith would smile.
The woman saw that I was watching them. ‘Such a handsome pair,’ she said. ‘I believe Mr Darby has become a regular visitor to Fitzwilliam Square.’
I thought of what Robert had told me: how he would meet with Darby and his father when his relationship with Emilie was uncovered. But this lady seemed to know of other gossip.
‘He has been paying addresses to Edith?’
‘Oh yes, for some time. Mrs Gould can hardly contain herself. She expects a proposal any day.’
Edith’s mother stood on the far side of the
hall, watching her daughter with hands clasped.
‘Is he not a little old?’
‘He is only a year beyond forty,’ the woman said, offended on his behalf. ‘It would be a most advantageous match.’
‘For whom?’
‘Why, for the Goulds.’ She glanced at me as if I were being obtuse. ‘Mr Darby’s importance for the spiritual renewal of the city will soon be acknowledged by all.’ She blinked, and her eyes regained focus as she turned away. She said that it was disagreeable to sit so close to the fire, and she rose to take her leave.
The music hadn’t lessened in tempo, and the dance would last a while yet. The gentlemen to my right were speaking of the effects the weather was having on their country estates. One said that his tenants were struggling because crops had been destroyed in freak storms. ‘It won’t be long, Mr Graves, before I have to send in the bailiffs.’
The one called Graves responded with a vague grunt, saying that he left such matters in the hands of his steward. There was a wine stain on one of his silk stockings, which made it look as though he had cut himself while traipsing through brambles.
‘Speaking of the weather,’ he said, ‘I saw a theory advanced in the Royal Society journal that made me chuckle. Written by some amateur meteorologist who happens to be a sheriff, or coroner, or some such.’
His companion said, ‘Mr Lawless?’
‘Mr Witless more like! He said that the drop in temperature was due to vapours emitted by the eruption of Mount Tambora last year. Not Etna, mark you, nor Vesuvius, but a volcano in the East Indies.’
I listened to my idea being mocked with some indignation. ‘Do you have your own theory, sir?’
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